


In Which Peter Wants to Go to the Stark Expo and Clint Likes the Hunger Games

by Scotty1609



Series: Hey, Kid! (Or How the Avengers Unwittingly Adopted Spiderman) [2]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bullying, Clint Is a Good Bro, Clint is the Cool Uncle, Deaf Clint Barton, Depression, Fluff, Hot Chocolate, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Nerdy Peter, Peter Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 15:38:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8996788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scotty1609/pseuds/Scotty1609
Summary: Clint is going to his favorite coffee shop for some hot chocolate when his training kicks in and he notices some cuts on a teenage boy's arm. Cue the feels.





	

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: mentions to bullying, self-harm, and other sensitive subjects.

Clint had been trained to notice the smallest of details, the tiniest of ticks. Anything and everything could be a clue if you paid close enough attention. All of your senses should be utilized to max potential in order to keep yourself and others safe. Whenever he entered a room, Clint was instantly taking mental notes on how many people were there, where windows and doors were located, who seemed like a threat and who seemed friendly, which doors could be utilized as an exit. The lists went on and on, and part of Clint hated that his training had been so engrained into him. Especially training in regards to his senses. Ever since he lost his hearing, Natasha and Coulson had stressed to him the importance of honing his other skills. Which Clint understood in full, but that didn't mean he wasn't annoyed by their babying.

So, upon entering the coffee shop, Clint was bombarded by sights and scents. Cinnamon buns had recently come out of the oven, and the couple sitting right next to the door were laughing over cat videos and nursing hot chocolate to their chests. There were only three workers today- two in the front, one in the back- and the shop had twelve people in it. One of the people was a veteran, Clint's age, so Clint could have seen him as a threat, if not for the two-year-old bouncing on his knee. Sighing at the muffled noises that were making his hearing aids go crazy, Clint walked towards the counter to order and adjusted the signal on his purple aids- they were his favorite pair, no matter what Tony had to say about the color.

After a few moments, choppy speech from across the coffee shop met his ears, and a few words caught Clint's attention.

“- sorry, but you need to leave if you aren't going to buy anything.”

“I-I don't have any m-money.”

Nonchalantly taking in the scenery, Clint secretly honed in on the conversation taking place. He saw a boy with overgrown glasses and a dirty beanie being 'talked to' by one of the two front-of-house workers. The girl was crossing her arms at the boy and looked conflicted. On the one hand, it was icy and gray outside, and the kid was hardly wearing anything by his beanie and a light jacket, his jeans tattered beyond repair, but on the other hand, she liked her job...

“Hey, kid,” Clint was calling and crossing the shop before he could stop himself, two hot chocolates in hand- and when had he ordered two? “There you are. Glad I found you. Sorry I was running late. Bad weather.” Resting a hand on the brunet's shoulder, Clint peered at the worker. “Is there a problem?”

“N-No, sir!” the girl chirped when Clint handed the hot chocolate to the boy. “I'll be getting back to work-”

“Yes, you will,” Clint nodded, getting a kick out of the poor girl's embarrassed retreat. Once the worker was gone, Clint looked down at the boy who was cradling the hot chocolate close to his chest and looking up with the biggest, brownest eyes Clint had ever seen.

“T-Thanks,” the kid muttered nervously, and Clint winked.

“No problem, sport.”

And then his training kicked in.

Every minute detail about the boy screamed at Clint. The way his legs shook from the cold, the sight of black and blue bruises peeking out from behind his torn jeans and the collar of his shirt, the bags beneath the boy's eyes like a crude fashion statement. And then there was the fact that his shirt sleeves were too short for his gangly limbs, leaving the horizontal array of cuts and scars on his wrist in plain sight.

“Fancy some company, squirt?”

The boy bristled at the nick-name, but shrugged. Clint figured it was the kid's way of repaying him for the hot chocolate.

Clint lounged across from the kid on a small sofa, peered over his cup to see what the boy was reading. He nearly snorted his drink when he realized the kid was reading Bruce's book. “What'cha reading?” he still humored the boy.

Said boy shifted nervously, nudging the book with his hand. “Dr. Bruce Banner's _Theory of Gamma-Genetics and Cosmic Radiation_. It's my favorite.” Clint cocked an eyebrow. “I've read it a couple times...” The kid shifted in his seat to pull his knees up to his chest.

“My favorite book is _the Hunger Games_. You read that one?”

The kid looked hopelessly confused, and Clint laughed incredulously. “Seriously? Tell me you've at least seen the movies... _No_?”

“I don't watch much TV or anything...” the kid murmured, looking embarrassed, and _boy_ if Clint understood. The kid obviously didn't come from money, which Clint related to on a personal level, and seemed embarrassed by it. “...but I like books. This coffee shop has good books.”

“What kinda books do you like?” Clint asked. “Y'know, besides Dr. Banner's _Theory of the Cosmos and Gamma-Whatsit_?”

The boy let out a soft laugh, his knees relaxing against his chest as he began speaking about all of Bruce's other books, throwing in something or other about a few scientists Clint had heard of before- Einstein, Vogel, Watson- and yammered on about his science experiment at school. The whole while, Clint was turning over the details he could see of the boy in his head.

The kid had abandonment issues, that much he could tell from the way the kid latched onto Clint. He didn't come from money- again, obvious- but he wasn't starving, which was good. He was on the scrawny side and was bullied often, perhaps abused- the bruises all over him and the poorly applied concealer on his left eye told Clint that. The cuts on his wrists were both new and old- old, white scars that pulled at the pale skin around them, and blistering red scabs that were likely chafing uncomfortably against that scratchy denim jacket the boy wore. The denim jacket that was obviously an old family relic, too dingy and too big to belong to the kid himself.

“-but I didn't get in.”

“Didn't get in?” Clint poorly concealed his distracted air.

“Yeah. To Mr. Stark's competition.”

“Competition?”

The boy had the gall to look exasperated, and Clint grinned at him.

“Yeah. Mr. Stark has an expo every year, right? Well, there are twenty-five students all from the age of thirteen to eighteen who apply for tables at the expo to showcase their experiments. I got first place at my school's science fair, and first at regional, which puts me in the running for the expo, but I didn't get in because I couldn't afford a ticket.”

Clint frowned. “They make you pay for your own ticket?”

“Well, the school pays for everything else, like the science supplies and the table and everything, but the ticket is so cheap-” the boy flushed in embarrassment “-that's it's not required for them to provide one. So it makes no sense for me to get a table when I can't even get a ticket.”

And oh yeah, Clint would be talking to Stark about this one. Kids should be kids and every brat should have the same opportunity as another brat, especially such a smart one as- “Er- what's your name?”

“Peter.”

“Clint.”

Peter smiled. “It's nice to meet you, Mr. Clint. And thanks for listening... not many people are this nice to me.”

“No?” Clint already knew as much, but he figured he'd humor the boy into a therapy session while he was there. Entertainment, he tried to convince himself. He had no reason to give a crap about a stranger kid's well-being. None whatsoever. Even though this kid _did_ seem familiar...

“Well...” Peter began, shuffling in his seat _yet again_ and making Clint want to sew his shoes to the carpet. “...there's these _guys_ at school.”

“Ahh... I see. There's always _guys_ at school, aren't there?” Peter nodded, and Clint rested his chin on his hand, his elbow on his knee. “They give you those bruises, too?”

Peter slowly nodded again. “Some of 'em.”

“They give you those cuts, too?”

Peter squaked, and Clint laughed at the boy's reaction. “C'mon, don't feel bad. Well, actually, if that'd get you to stop then yes, do feel bad. But anyways, kid, it gets better.”

Peter huffed. “I've heard _that_ before...”

“Hey,” Clint rolled up his sleeve and showed the boy his own scars, wide and white, pulling and stretching across his skin in a grotesque paint-stroke fashion, “I have a dog and a family, now. Big one. Several brothers, a sister, and a pirate-eyed uncle. If your home-life isn't the best, power on through it, because you can make your own family. I did.”

“S'not home-life...” Peter murmured distractedly as he reached out to touch Clint's scars. Halfway there, something shocked him back to himself, because he retreated back to his seat, pulling his sleeves down over his wrists.

“If it's not home, what is it?”

“The guys at school-”

“I'm calling bull honkey. Sure, they're a part of it, but there's gotta be more, right?” There was more, Clint could tell. He could barely put his finger on it, was so close to figuring it out, but there was just one piece missing that he couldn't find.

“I've got a lot of... responsibilities,” the boy grasped for a good word. “A lot of people are depending on me... And I feel like I just keep letting them down.”

“Why do you have to please them?”

The boy looked down into his half-empty mug, a frown on his features. “With great power comes great responsibility...” he murmured just loud enough for Clint's hearing aids to make out.

“Hey, kid, whatever _great power_ that has deigned to fuck up your life, screw it.” Clint stood, ruffling the boy's hair and placing his empty mug on the coffee table between them. “Make your own life, ya hear? Make your own family. Make life your bitch, yeah? You're tough. You'll be okay.”

“You think?”

And god if those Bambi eyes didn't make him want to sweep the kid up in a hug, then the desperation in his voice practically did Clint in.

“Sure thing, Pete. You're smart. Really smart. Don't give up on that expo, alright? And don't give up on your dreams.” _Just don't give up on life_ , Clint wanted to say, wanted to tell the kid to never dare lay a hand on a razor or a knife or whatever again. But he knew it wasn't that easy, personally he knew. “Life is a bitch. You just gotta tame it, yeah?” While he was at it, feeling so gooey inside and- god forbid- _paternal_ , Clint fished thirty bucks out of his wallet and handed it to the kid. “And for god's sake, get yourself some new jeans.”

Suddenly, Peter was launching himself at Clint, hugging his middle tightly and burrowing his face into the man's chest. Clint awkwardly stood there for a moment, patting the kid's back. “Alright, alright, don't seem too happy, squirt.”

“Thanks again, Mr. Clint.”

“No prob.”

“Well,” Peter looked at the clock, “it's almost my curfew, so I'll see you around. And I promise I'll pay you back for the jeans and the hot chocolate.”

Clint snorted. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, kid.”

And then Peter was off, gone with the tinkling of the shop's door bell, leaving Clint watching after him and shaking his head. He noticed then that the boy had left his book on the chair, the tattered cover open to see the page that read _This book belongs to:_ And in messy crayon, a child had written _Peter Parker_ across the page. “Huh,” Clint said to himself, picking the book up and putting it in his jacket. “Smart kid.”

He had an odd feeling that he'd be seeing Peter again.

 


End file.
